


The Funny Thing About Being Tied Down

by ShiroCherry



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood and Torture, Bloodplay, Burning, M/M, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Violence, Waterboarding, facesitting, poor Nathan :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiroCherry/pseuds/ShiroCherry
Summary: Pickles let out a quiet chuckle under his breath. “Sorry, dude.” He picked up a small, thin razor blade, the sharp edge glinting in the orange glow. “Those restraints are pretty tight. I’d be surprised if you could break outta dem.” He sauntered over to the larger man, like a predator closing the distance on his prey. “But we need to get ya through this writer’s block,” he said, leaning in close to the much larger man until they met at eye level. “And I’m gonna help you do it.”





	The Funny Thing About Being Tied Down

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't kick us out of the fandom.

They say great art often comes from a tortured soul—but Nathan was vaguely certain this wasn’t what they meant.

That evening wasn’t the first time Nathan had awakened to find himself strapped to a chair at the hands of his drummer. Fuck, he knew he deserved it, too. A splash of water to the face greeted him like a slap each time, and he always knew what was going down before the grog cleared from his eyes. Generally speaking, it was never anything Nathan couldn’t take. If anything, it was a game of sorts between the two of them. How much could Nathan handle before gasping “uncle” between haggard breaths?

But there was a shift in the mood that evening—it was practically tangible. He could taste it in the air, like the metallic tinge of blood.

Perhaps it was the byproduct of the tremendous ass-chewing they’d received from the head of the label earlier in the day. Between the destruction of the last album and Nathan’s inability to complete a new one, the record executive’s patience was growing thin—as was Pickles’s. That much was evident by the way he’d brushed Nathan off that evening, heading into his room far earlier than normal instead of getting drunk with him while they watched garbage TV like they usually did. But more likely, it was the rag balled in his mouth—impeding his ability to cry out when he’d had enough—that made him feel so disquieted in that moment.

As Nathan’s vision cleared, he saw the beads of water drip off the sharp lines of his nose and fall onto his bare legs. In his periphery, he saw a pair of dark sneakers turn on their heel and walk away from him. Nathan slowly raised his head.

His sight was partially obscured by strands of his wet black hair, but he could see the much smaller man standing about 10 feet in front of him. Pickles stood with his back towards Nathan, long, fiery dreadlocks cascading down his back. He was leaning over a table, the furnace to his right radiating heat and producing a warm, red glow that filled the cramped, dank room. From the corner of his eye, Nathan could see something long and thin sticking out of the illuminated furnace. Suddenly, the sound of metallic scraping echoed off the damp, stone walls as Pickles ran a large Bowie knife across a sharpener. Sweat began dripping down Nathan’s arms, but he didn’t know if it was from the temperature or from seeing the smaller man turn to face him.

Pickles seemed dismayed, his mouth twisted into a grimace and his arms crossed tight across his narrow chest. Despite that, his eyes reflected the fire from the furnace in a way that made Nathan feel a tightening in his heart; a tightening that was inspired by an intoxicating mix of fear and delight. Behind Pickles, barely visible in the dim light, was a row of implements of various sizes and applications. The heated glow caught on the few spots of metal not covered in rust, causing Nathan to question whether they even had the ability to break skin. As Pickles moved to select his first tool of torture, Nathan unconsciously pulled his arms against his restraints in a futile effort to get away.

Pickles let out a quiet chuckle under his breath. “Sorry, dude.” He picked up a small, thin razorblade, the sharp edge glinting in the orange glow. “Those restraints are pretty tight. I’d be surprised if you could break outta dem.” He sauntered over to the larger man, like a predator closing the distance on his prey. “But we need to get ya through this writer’s block,” he said, leaning in close to the much larger man until they met at eye level. “And I’m gonna help you do it.”

Pickles bent down and positioned himself between the larger man’s thighs and slid his hand up his leg. “Just, uh…lemme know when inspiration strikes.” Pickles glanced at Nathan’s obstructed mouth and shrugged. “Well, uh, grunt or somethin’, I guess.” The edge of the razor blade shined in the amber light, and Pickles met Nathan’s eyes for a brief moment before pressing it into the slick flesh of his thigh. A fine line of blood droplets formed in the wake the blade, rising and dripping down the pale flesh. The redhead wiped the blood away with a single finger as it dripped and put it to his mouth. “Oh hey, I got an idea,” he said. The ominous lighting of the room only accentuated his mischievous smile before he suddenly shoved a finger into the other man’s wound. “Sometimes ya gotta do a little diggin’ before ya find somethin’ good.” Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, his cries of pain muffled by his gag. He wondered how much of this he could take and became suddenly aware of the fact that Pickles was only just getting started.

And it was true: as far as Pickles was concerned, this was merely foreplay. Shifting his attention to the other side of Nathan’s leg, the redhead made an identical cut and promptly placed his mouth to it, lapping at the blood that beaded and trickled out. He could practically taste the adrenaline laced into the coppery flavor.

In a last effort to illicit a response before moving on, Pickles jammed the razor blade into the thickest part of muscle and turned it. Nathan wasn’t sure if seeing the blade go in was what caused him to scream into his gag, but the burning feeling that made its way up to his waist was definitely a factor. Pickles flashed a malicious grin as he pressed what seemed like his entire weight into the blade. And yet, as Nathan scanned through the catalogs of his mind, he found himself thoroughly uninspired.

With the lack of response, Pickles’s usual smirk twisted into a frown. "Hmm, okay, razor blades aren't doin' it, eh?” He rose to his feet then and sauntered back over to the table, placing the bloody razor neatly alongside the other implements. He scanned the tools of varying sharpness with great scrutiny. He needed something with which he could pull the thread and unravel whatever was locked up so tight in Nathan’s mind. The glowing furnace caught his attention from the corner of this eye. Nathan noticed this too and followed his line of sight. “Maybe we should try stoking that creative fire of yours."

Embers blazed within the furnace, and Nathan now recognized the long object sticking out of it: a fire poker. Pickles pulled the poker from the burning coals, causing tiny bits of heat to fly out and skitter across the floor like fleeing rats. The tip glowed angrily as Pickles mockingly blew on the sharp instrument. “If those klokateers can handle it, den it shouldn’t be a problem for _you_ , right?” The steam rose as if dancing towards the ceiling, amplifying the suggestive nature of this late-night meeting. Even with the poker several feet away from him, Nathan felt as if it was already touching his skin. He pleaded to be let go, but his muffled protests fell on deaf ears.

Pickles placed the rod almost inches away from Nathan’s face until it glowed brightly in front of his eyes. “Ya got anything for me yet, big guy? No?” Once again, Nathan struggled in his chair, but the restraints held him firmly in place. The only thing that he could do was twist away from the heated iron in despair. He closed his eyes to save himself from the miserable memory of seeing the burning rod scorch his vulnerable skin. Suddenly, the smell of burning flesh filled the room, and Nathan screamed into his gag as white-hot pain consumed him. Pickles had plunged the spike into his side so agonizingly slow, and the redhead watched the skin beneath and around it brighten to a furious shade of red. By this point, tears were falling from Nathan’s eyes and onto the the gag that stifled his sobbing. The smaller man brushed his fingers against the newly burnt skin, looking slightly disappointed that his counterpart wasn’t handling this the way he'd planned.

“Maybe I’m goin’ the wrong direction here.” He promptly turned around and made his way back to the table, the tools partly obscured from Nathan’s view. “Maybe it’s me—not you.” Pickles grabbed something from the table.  _Was that...a sack?_ Nathan wondered. But before he could identify what the item was with certainty, the smaller man had already grabbed it and tucked it away into his back pocket.

Pickles circled the chair, his eyes darkening into something sinister, something malicious. Once he was behind Nathan, he gripped the top of the chair and, without warning, slammed it backwards onto the hard ground. The back of Nathan’s head hit the stone floor with a heavy thud, causing the man to groan in pain. The fresh brand was starting to become irritated by the constant shifting, further adding to his discomfort.

Long dreads hung over Nathan’s face as the shorter man bent over him—Pickles towered over his captive as he stood astride him, one foot on either side of his waist. Half of his face was illuminated by the orange glow of the nearby flames; the other half remained hidden in shadow. Nathan had never seen Pickles like this—and in all honesty, while the gleam in Pickles’s green eyes terrified him to his very core, there was a certain insane beauty present that he couldn’t tear himself away from.

Slowly, the smaller man sank down until he straddled Nathan’s expansive chest, his knees pressing into his shoulders. “Not a bad view, eh?” Pickles smirked. And it wasn’t bad at all—truly. “It’s not often dat I got a physical advantage over ya.” The redhead smirked, sitting up and leaning forward slightly until the apex between his legs hovered just over the other man’s face. “Maybe I should just…” Pickles trailed off, slowly lowering himself onto Nathan's mouth, letting him know exactly what he wanted.

As much as Nathan enjoyed the method, the result nearly broke him. Pickles grinded down onto Nathan’s face, obstructing his airway, and soon his lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen. “Just a few more seconds down dere, big guy,” Pickles murmured, clearly enjoying himself and the feeling of Nathan’s wild flailing beneath his center. Just as Nathan was about to tap his palm feverishly against the arm of the chair—the only way he could think to signify his surrender—Pickles lifted himself up. A rush of fresh air rose to meet his passages and filled his lungs in a sudden, cold burst.

The smaller man yanked the gag out of his captive’s mouth and rose slowly to retrieve something from the table: a pitcher of water. Nathan felt like yelling—for help, out of anger, out of fear? He wanted anyone to hear him, but all he could muster was heavy breathing. Pickles sauntered back over to him and crouched down, his back against the glow of the furnace, illuminating his shape and casting his face in shadow. The red glow reflected off the glass pitcher and danced across the water within, and Nathan’s dry tongue suddenly prickled with need.

“W-wa…” he managed to wheeze.

“What was dat, Nat’an? You’ll have to speak up,” Pickles mocked.

“Water…” Nathan gasped between breaths.

“Oh, ya want some of dis?” Pickles picked up the pitcher and swirled the contents around. “Don’t worry. Dis is all for you.” And with that, the redhead grabbed the cloth in his back pocket and covered the other man’s face, holding it taught against his skin. Nathan began to panic, and the feeling of water dripping on his face only served to increase his anxiety. As the water filled up his nose and slid down his airway, filling the back of his throat, the feeling of anxiety evolved into sheer terror as he realized he was drowning. And then, rather unexpectedly, it shifted into complete serenity.

He was certain he was dying. Slipping away into darkness, he felt as if he were floating in the darkest depths of the ocean. He was only vaguely aware of his own body, strapped to a chair, thrashing against the machinations of his drummer on the stone floor. It seemed so distant now, and while floating in total tranquility, he basked in the warmth and the quiet of the sea.

That was when he heard it: A soft siren song calling out to him from somewhere in the darkness—something mournful and beautiful, something that touched a part of him he didn’t even know existed. In a haze, he turned around, his limbs struggling to move in the water with any kind of speed and leaving trails of air bubbles in their wake.

As he turned, his vision was obscured by thick locks of black hair swirling all around him in the water— _his_ hair. But as the locks moved and waved out of his line of sight, he could just make out the massive shape that loomed in the distance. At first, he thought it was a ship, but his rational mind knew that couldn’t be because it appeared to be _in_ the water, not on it.

The siren song called back to him once again—louder this time, but no clearer. And that was the moment everything fell into place: her song wasn’t a song at all—it was a plea.

_Nathan…_

He extended a hand out to her, fingers reaching in the darkness of the deep.

_From the land, to the sea…_

His fingers grazed soft fine hairs and rough, wet skin.

_There’s no “them,” only “we”..._

_Nathan…_

_Nathan._

“NAT’AN!”

A sensation from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach called him back to the stone floor, and as his vision cleared, he saw a pair of green, panicked-stricken eyes staring directly into his own. Pickles gripped Nathan’s face between his hands tightly—possibly even tighter than he realized. Nathan began coughing wildly, water coming up through his nose and mouth, and the sensation that he might puke pricked at his cheeks. Pickles pulled a knife out of his back pocket and quickly worked to release his restraints.

“Fuck, dude, I-” The drummer started, but he was cut off as Nathan rolled out of the chair and onto all fours, spitting up water until he could finally breathe. “I thought you were fuckin’ dead. You were yellin’ and den ya stopped movin’ and I-”

“Pickles…” Nathan’s deep growl came out hoarse as he cut the other man off. “Give me your notepad.” He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand, his shaky breathing beginning to slow. “I think I’ve got something.”


End file.
